RGL e-Book Cover©
Based on an old French calendar cover (1900)
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
Based on an old French calendar cover (1900)
Cassell's Magazine of Fiction, June 1924 with "The Last Ambush"
The Popular Magazine, 7 July 1924, with "The Beach of Assassins"
Courage akin to that of Salaman Chayne enters the quaking hulk of Kotman Dasa for a little space. And in that brief respite from his besetting weakness the lovable coward overwhelms Dragour, the curse of society, with an invincible combination of brawn and brain.
OUTSIDE of battle zones and places where mankind practices the arts and crafts of war, few men have escaped a swift and ugly death by a narrower margin than that by which Messrs. Salaman Chayne and Kotman Dass, of No. 10 Green Square, London, were preserved on the occasion when Dragour, the Drugmaster, contrived that a high-explosive bomb should be placed in the house of the oddly assorted partners.
They were saved by a fraction of time only. Had the bomb been discovered twenty seconds later than it was nothing could have saved them.
But, unlike Kotman Dass, Mr. Salaman Chayne was the possessor of that particular kind of nerve which seems incapable of being affected by the passing touch of the somber wings of the Dark Angel.
The fierce-eyed Mr. Chayne had very little imagination with which to fret himself, and within a second of sending his badly scared partner upstairs to the bird room, there to tranquilize his quivering nerves, he was at the telephone demanding most urgently to be put through to Scotland Yard, criminal investigation department.
He wanted to get into touch with Mr. Gregory Kiss, the detective with whom he had entered into whole-hearted cooperation in the matter of tracking down the drug-master.
Not more than a quarter of an hour had elapsed since Mr. Chayne had assisted the detective in depositing at Scotland Yard three captured assistants of the master scoundrel who, like a secret vampire, an unseen leech, had fastened on so many victims.
Mr. Kiss had not yet left and Salaman was quickly put in touch.
He spoke urgently, describing with his usual acrid brevity the affair of the bomb.
"It's done no harm, you understand, Kiss—except to make a gravel pit in the Square garden and to break nearly every window in the Square. But what gets me is that it nearly frightened Dass foolish. He was a badly scared man—and what I fear is that if he gets much more of this sort of thing, his brains will jib—jib, you understand. We can't afford that at this stage. Just as soon as he comes back to normal he is going to start his biggest panic yet. I want to stop that before it starts. And that means I've got to get him out of this—and get myself out, too—into a safer place, while there's time. Dragour means cold business, that's clear enough now, and he knows where to find us. So the sooner we get out the better. I want to know your ideas about a fresh dugout from which we can operate. What do you suggest? ... Yes, go on. I'm listening."
He listened for some minutes, nodding and muttering half-audible comments.
As he began to speak again his quick ear caught the sound of an opening door behind him and the shuffle of his bulky partner's carpet-slippers.
"Yes, yes, Kiss, an excellent idea. Glad you thought of that—very. My partner, Kotman Dass, is upstairs in the bird room at present, but he will be glad when I tell him that you have suggested a place of perfect safety to which he can move at once. I am glad that Scotland Yard practically guarantees that on no account shall a hair of Dass' head be hurt."
Mr. Chayne was talking now purely for the benefit of the remarkable man behind him—and, since Salaman, rightly or wrongly, was a person who never hesitated to expand the strict truth a little when he conceived it necessary, the remainder of his conversation with Mr. Kiss was extremely cheerful hearing for Kotman Dass.
But Mr. Dass had been wasting very little time himself. Even as his partner had anticipated, the visit to the tranquilizing room of many birds had helped the timorous Mr. Dass get a grip on himself—and also a grip on his hat and hand-bag.
Salaman, leaving the telephone, noticed that at once. With the exception of his boots Kotman Dass was ready to leave. He held his boots in his hand and was clearly intending to put them on then and there.
"Ha, Dass, that's right! Not letting the grass grow under your feet before you flit, are you?" said Salaman with a peculiar blend of sarcasm and sincerity in his voice. His admiration of his mountainous partner's mental powers was as profound as his sour and disdainful contempt for Kotman's excessive and uncontrollable timidity. "He's afraid of everything that moves and much that doesn't!" was one of Mr. Chayne's more acrid descriptions of his partner.
"Yes, dear mister, leaving house forthwith immediatlee," quavered the fat man. "The shocks and terrible alarms of existence in this place have reduced nerves to condition of warm jellee!" he continued. "I am in serious state of shocking fright, and, trusting you are agreeable to same, proposing straightway deserting sinking ship!"
"Sinking devil!" snapped Mr. Chayne viciously. "We're not sinking—we're shifting our ground. Any fool of a general knows enough to vacate an untenable position."
The face of the dusky Mr. Dass lit up like a smoking lamp.
"You, too, my dear mister!" he said. "That is veree pleasant news for me."
"Well, you didn't think I intended to stay here until Dragour felt in the mood to hand me mine, did you?" inquired Mr. Chayne waspishly.
"Oah, noa, certainlee not," agreed Mr. Dass hastily.
WITHIN the next three hours they were more or less comfortably installed in a set of chambers in Clifford's Inn. With them was Salaman's piping bullfinch, Kotman's talking starling, their manservant, Tollerton—and the macaw recently presented to Mr. Dass by Salaman.
No. 10 Green Square was left in charge of caretakers recommended by Mr. Kiss—an old soldier and his wife.
That Dragour had detailed one or more of his jackals to watch them closely was made evident as their taxicab was leaving Green Square. The driver, crisply instructed by Salaman to make haste, roared his engine up too quickly and achieved a ringing back-fire as he snaked the taxi violently round the corner. At least that is what Mr. Chayne at first thought the sharp report he heard as they slid into the street leading from the Square, but Kotman Dass, shuddering, pointed to the glass of the closed window nearest himself. There was a neat round hole in the center of that window, with innumerable cracks radiating away from it as the spokes of a wheel radiate from the hub. It was a bullet hole—and one freshly made,
"A man fired from across thoroughfare at moment of turning corner," said Mr. Dass with chattering teeth.
"Oh, did he?" gritted Salaman, thrusting his yellow head out of the open window to peer back.
"No sign of him now " he began, but Kotman pulled him into the car again. "It is matter of great importance to avoid receipt of bullet through head!" said Mr. Dass, nervously. "I beg thousand pardons for tugging at coat tails, dear mister, but bullet in brains is veree undesirable contretemps!"
So Salaman had relapsed, snarling softly.
But the comfortable appearance of the chambers took the keen edge off his wrath, and a generous and well-earned whisky and soda completed the soothing of Salaman.
Tollerton, with the aid of supplementary supplies from a Fleet Street restaurant, achieved a quite attractive dinner for the partners and when Mr. Gregory Kiss called in at perhaps ten o'clock his welcome was rather unexpectedly warm.
"So you like these chambers?" he greeted them. "Well, I'm glad of that. It was the only place available in a hurry that I know of just at present."
He leaned forward, cutting off the end of the cigar which Mr. Chayne had given him.
"Now, Mr. Dass, if you'll give me the facts about the attempt on you by bomb, and you, Mr. Chayne, the truth about the shooting as you left Green Square, I can promise you that I'll be listening."
He chuckled a dry, sparse chuckle and prepared to listen.
He did not speak again till both had finished. Then, staring absently at the bullfinch which, being "nervous in new quarters" explained its owner, was perched on Salaman's finger, he spoke very seriously.
"Dragour is becoming anxious," he said. "We three are getting on his nerves and he's hitting out. We shall have to go carefully. He hasn't been ignoring me altogether, either. Look at this!"
He took from his pocket a small round paper-wrapped package. Carefully removing the paper he disclosed a red apple of medium size. It was cut in two, but the halves were skewered together with a splinter of wood.
"It's a regular habit of mine to eat an apple when I get home after a day's work. It seems to clean my palate and improve my appetite—just as many men take a whisky and soda every night for the same purpose. There was an apple on my sideboard when I got home some time ago, and, without thinking, I took it up. I had my mind on Dragour and I was just about to bite into the apple when it struck me that it felt moist—sticky. I had eaten one of the same kind after breakfast and it had been firm, clean and, on the outside, dry. This was the first of the last lot my housekeeper got which was not dry. I wondered why—just as I have long had the habit of wondering at any unusual or unexpected thing—even so small a matter as a sticky apple. I put the apple down, divided it with a knife into halves—like this—and smelled it I Smell it yourselves!"
He proffered a half to each.
"Nothing wrong with it," said Salaman, sniffing.
"You smoke too many cigars, Mr. Chayne. What does Mr. Dass say?" asked the detective.
But the actions of Mr. Dass were sufficiently eloquent.
He sniffed carefully—then suddenly thrust the half apple away from him with a gesture of terrified aversion. His dark skin blanched and his eyes dilated.
"The fruit is not good!" he said, his jaw hanging. "There is faint smell of bitterness "
Gregory Kiss nodded. "Faint enough for a careless man to ignore—or attribute to an unnoticed speck of rottenness," he said carefully reskewering the halves. "But the apple is poisoned—eh, Mr. Dass?"
Kotman Dass shuddered.
"Highlee probable; sir, mister," he stammered.
"What poison?" snapped Salaman.
"I don't know—but it will be analyzed to-morrow," said Mr. Kiss. "How Dragour got it put on my sideboard is a mystery at present—my old housekeeper knows nothing of it, of course. But she usually takes a nap in the afternoons and sends the maid out for a walk. But we can trust Dragour to use an obscure poison—probably as quick as it is obscure," stated Mr. Kiss.
He put away the apple.
"I don't want to startle you, Mr. Dass," he continued quietly. "But it's come to the point when it's a race who gets who! If we don't get Dragour soon—he will get us. Just as he's got a good many others before us, no doubt. If you've got any fresh ideas, Mr. Dass, or you, Chayne, now is the time to produce them, for things are getting too fine-drawn for delay! I confess I don't know where to start. We can't get at him through his victims—we've worked that plan out. He covers his tracks too well."
Mr. Chayne shook his head, scowling.
"Show me the scoundrel and I'll pull him down, if it's my last action," snarled the little man venomously—but softly, for sake of the bullfinch. "But don't ask me for theories or ideas!"
Mr. Kiss was watching Kotman Dass.
The fat man made an uncertain gesture.
"I beg to say I am weaving new theories—fresh plan of action. Listen, if you please."
He spoke for some moments with an earnestness clearly inspired by fear. His plan was simple in the extreme—but it sounded promising.
The fat man agreed with Mr. Kiss that it was almost impossible to track Dragour through his victims. He explained that it should have been obvious long before—and profusely apologized for not noticing it earlier—that the very first precaution against discovery Dragour probably had taken would be to guard with fastidious care the most likely means of detection and approach.
"He is like officer in fortified camp who guards most obvious and weakest part first, making it perhaps the strongest part. He is crafty snake, and he would know well that some day, from one or more of great variety of conceivable causes some of victims will tell tales. Therefore, Dragour would take great precaution that no victim has anything to tell—that none of them shall have seen him ever nor know where he has his lair—except only few trusted jackals. Soa, that means of attack is veree means above all others most carefully nullified by precaution."
The fat man sighed heavily.
"It is better plan to attack along less guarded approach—to attack weak spot of scoundrel in question, ignoring strong, dangerous approach. His onlee weakness known to us is passion for collection of antique things."
The others were following intently.
"It is veree highlee probable that he is possessor of magnificent collection rare things—for he is undoubtedlee veree rich, veree unscrupulous, and he has special means of stealing, of taking, from victims what cannot be purchased. Certainly such man as that is good customer of antique dealers—sufficiently good to be man well known in that trade. But it is not a trade such as draper—grocer—such business. There is not antique seller at every street corner like public house. The big firms one can count on the fingers of hands—and they are discreet, and well accustomed to inquiries. The police and detectives—"
He nodded his heavy head, forgetting his tremors in his interest.
"I will suggest set of useful questions for you and Scotland Yard friends to use to dealers, if you wish, dear Mister Kiss."
Mr. Kiss appeared to wish it very much indeed, and forthwith the huge Mr. Dass, taking pencil and paper, for he trusted no man's memory but his own, fell to work.
IT is true that antique dealers are well accustomed to receive curious inquiries, but it is also true that they are equally well accustomed to exercise a certain businesslike reserve and care in answering such inquiries. Few men build up a big business by talking indiscriminately about the details of that business to any casual inquirer.
Consequently, the progress made by Messrs. Chayne, Kiss and, in a hesitant and extremely cautious way, Kotman Dass, was slow. Kotman Dass was keeping his own counsel and to the persuasions of Mr, Kiss returned the same nervous and evasive replies as he gave to the acrid inquiries of Mr. Chayne.
Then, quite unexpectedly, a clew fell into the hands of Mr. Chayne.
The caretaker, left at 10 Green Square by the partners with instructions to report concerning all callers, arrived at the place where he usually reported to Mr. Chayne—an obscure restaurant off the Tottenham Court Road—announcing that a girl had called that morning urgently asking to see either Mr. Chayne or Kotman Dass.
She was in a condition of great excitement and considerable distress and said that she had called to beg their help against an enemy "of whom they knew."
The caretaker explained that her pleadings had been so urgent and pitiful that he had told her to call again an hour later, by which time be would have seen Mr. Chayne and received instructions. Ex-Private Clarke was not a man to act without orders. Many years of prewar army life had very effectually taught him never, on any account, to think for himself.
"What name did she give?" demanded Salaman.
"Elmere, sir. She said she had once been maid to a Lady Barford and had left her service when she became engaged to Lord Barford's valet, a man called Everitt."
"Humph, we'll test that," said Salaman, and forthwith telephoned to Lady Barford at the great house in the West End which Kotman Dass' friend Doctor Babbaji Chunder Ghote now controlled for the benefit of the drug patients, victims of Dragour, living there.
Lady Barford corroborated the statement, though she added that she had believed the girl to be happily married to Everitt long before.
"I'll see her, Clarke—bring her round here," decided Mr. Chayne, and lighting a cigar leaned back, evidently pleased with himself for showing such caution and restraint.
"A month ago I would have gone round and interviewed her without a thought of possible traps," he said. "But—that won't do with Dragour!"
But ten minutes' conversation with the girl convinced him that his caution had been wasted. She was a little fair-haired thing, who once had been pretty, but now was too thin and worn to be attractive. Her eyes were red and she wore no wedding ring.
She told her story with a quiet despair. It was quite simple.
Her name was Rosalie Elmere and she had left Lady Barford expecting shortly to marry George Everitt the valet. But there had been a series of postponements. Everitt had given up his situation with Lord Barford in order to start a rather mysterious business connected with horse racing—some system of selling information or "tips" to betting people. He was a great friend of Frank Sover, the jockey, who once had been retained to ride by Lord Barford. Gradually Everitt had drifted away from her, said the girl, and then one day she had discovered by accident that he was a victim of the drug habit. Distressed and frightened, she had consulted her uncle, who was butler at Barford House, and he had told her the truth about Sover.
"Yes, yes—Sover was one of the jackals of a certain drug seller," said Salaman. "No doubt he got Everitt started on the habit. What do you want me to do?"
"When the racing business failed George Everitt went back to his work. He got a berth as valet to a gentleman who—takes the drug too!"
Her tired eyes widened. "George let that slip when I saw him last. I asked him why we couldn't get married—and he said his wages were too low. It was then he let slip that his master paid him partly in money and partly in drugs for his own use. He seemed afraid of his master and—"
Salaman felt a thrill of excitement. "What's his master like?"
I have never seen him. I asked George about him. He is very rich. George spoke about his harsh face and black eyes being enough to frighten any one when he is angry."
Salaman's fingers clenched. He had seen Dragour once for a few seconds—and Dragour's face was cruel and hard and his eyes, too, were black.
Was this employer of Everitt by some fortunate chance Dragour?
"What's his name—the master's?" he asked keenly.
"Sir John Lestern."
Mr. Chayne shook his head. "Humph! Never heard of him! Where does he live?"
"George said that he had several houses but now he is staying at one of his country houses near Bournemouth—at a place called Studland, at Poole."
"Sir John Lestern, at Studland, Poole—yes, yes," muttered Mr. Chayne, his yellow eyes glittering. "Well, what do you want me to do for you?"
"My uncle told me privately that you and your friend had been able to help Lady Barford against a man who gave her drugs through that jockey, Sover, and—and—I thought you could help me get George Everitt away from Sir John Lestern and into that—that place where the drug takers are cured. I am sure he is a wicked man—he sounds wicked and I am sure George knows it, only he is afraid of him."
Her thin hands trembled over her shabby bag.
"Oh, if only you would, please. I—I have a little money and I would be glad to pay the expenses—to save him."
Salaman stood up. He was convinced now. He was sure. This was Dragour's work—and Sir John Lestern was Dragour.
"Put away your money, my dear," he said. "We'll attend to that part of it. And come with me."
"Oh! You will—help me?"
"We will fetch your sweetheart away today!"
She began to cry softly.
Mr. Chayne left her and went again to the telephone. He wanted to get in touch with Mr. Gregory Kiss at once.
She had recovered herself when he returned and there was in her eyes as she entered the taxicab with him a new light—the first faint gleam of restored hope.
IT was not to Clifford's Inn that the fierce-eyed little Mr. Chayne rode—nor to the office of Mr. Kiss. He directed the driver to go to Hammeyers'—the biggest antique dealer in London, for he had been advised by one of the assistants at the detective's office to try to catch Mr. Kiss at that place—where, explained the assistant, his employer had an appointment that morning.
Mr. Chayne did not trouble to notify Kotman Dass of this new clew.
It was, he realized, a case for quick action, and, in any case, the mountainous Mr. Dass would never have courage enough to accompany them to Poole, should Mr. Kiss agree that the trail to Sir John Lestern was worth following up.
Mr. Chayne was just in time to catch the detective. He was standing at the door of the antique shop, talking with the younger Hammeyer—a dark, quick-eyed, well-dressed man.
Salaman did not need to leave the taxi. Mr. Kiss saw him as the cab drew up, realized from the little man's imperative beckoning that he was in a hurry, and so left Hammeyer, with a nod, and came to the curb at once.
"Good!" said Salaman, with a vibrant excitement in his voice. "Get in, Kiss. I've got some news for you!"
They directed the driver to go to the offices of Mr. Kiss and drove off, the dealer watching them curiously. But his eyes were on Rosalie Elmere, not on the men.
His eyebrows were raised as he turned back into the shop, and went to a showroom on the upper floor where, in order to interview Mr, Kiss, he had left a customer who had seemed promisingly interested in a pair of K'ang Hsi vases which Mr. Hammeyer had for disposal at the modest figure of three thousand pounds.
The customer was Kotman Dass, And though he did not actually purchase the vases he got on so well with Mr. Hammeyer, in his innocent nervous way, and was so evidently an authority on Indian ivories and goldsmiths' work that he and Hammeyer had been enjoying quite an interesting chat when they had been severed by the arrival in the shop below of Mr. Kiss. But the dealer's face was absent as he rejoined the fat, dark-faced gentleman studying the vases. He was puzzled. Twice that morning the name of Sir John Lestern—his best customer—had seemed to crop up insistently in conversation. First it had been this dark-skinned student of Chinese porcelain with whom he had found himself discussing, among other matters, the truly enormous purchases of really good things by the wealthy baronet. Then, quite oddly, the name of the same big buyer had seemed to glide unobtrusively into his chat with the detective!
It was almost as if these men had been adroitly leading him on to speak of Lestern.
Hammeyer had been unaccountably uneasy on that point even before that truculent-eyed little man had driven up and beckoned the detective so imperiously—but what made matters far more complicated, he mused, as he topped the stairs, was the identity of the woman accompanying the yellow-bearded little stranger.
The fat, dark-skinned man, awaiting him cut into the dealer's thoughts.
"Pardon me, if you please, dear mister," he said anxiously. "But gentlemen who have just been driven away by taxicab were veree good friends of mine—Misters Gregory Kiss and Salaman Chayne. But they were in company of lady strange to me."
Hammeyer laughed.
"I shouldn't worry," he said. "She was no stranger to me, though I've never before seen her dressed so quietly as this morning. I will answer for her—that was Lady Lestern, wife of my best customer and the biggest private buyer of antiques in this country! Your friends are in good company, Mr. Er-um-um, I assure you!"
But the jaw of Mr. Er-um-um had fallen, a look of stark terror had dilated his eyes, and he began to tremble.
"But, sir, mister, this is veree tragic, appalling thing—Sir John Lestern is Dragour! I have sure instinct, result of many inquiries and investigations crying that loudly to me! Oah—where do they goa now?"
He was quaking.
Hammeyer stared.
"And who might Dragour be?" he said coldly, and shrugged. "Aren't we rather gossiping, Mr.—Ah-er-m? What do you think of this Ch'ien Lung incense burner?"
But Kotman Dass, his face ghastly, was lumbering heavily toward the stairs, muttering wildly.
He ignored utterly the dealer—who, after a word, let him go.
"What was that maniac muttering as he went out, Lescher?" he demanded of a slick young assistant.
"He was saying something about somebody being in the jaws of the trap, sir."
Hammeyer shrugged again.
"Mad!" he said and turned into his private office.
Kotman Dass was running clumsily toward a taxicab.
"Oah, they have brains of little children," he complained as he went. "They walk like little innocent things into every snare that is set for them!"
Truly the new line of inquiry suggested by Kotman had proved effective.
DURING the past few days the industrious investigation and inquiries effected by Messrs. Kiss and Chayne working together, and Mr, Dass, working alone, had gradually inclined them all to the opinion that few, if any, of the private buyers or collectors of antiques in England conducted their collecting on the same lavish scale as Sir John Lestern, or bought with a more reckless disregard for price. That he must be a man in control of very huge sums of money was evident. Yet he was comparatively unknown as a collector—except to the antique dealers and auctioneers. He appeared to detest publicity—and nobody quite seemed to know where his money came from—which is unusual in England, where almost any one of the really rich can be readily labeled with the source of his wealth. A gets his money from coal; B from newspapers; C from shipping; D from finance; E from insurance, and so forth.
But nobody seemed to have the least notion of the source of the huge sums spent by Sir John Lestern.
And, bit by bit, too, it had become clearer that this man resembled in several physical points the man whom Salaman Chayne had seen full face for a minute or so at the secret flat in which Lady Argrath had watched the husband she had ruined commit suicide.
Already looking a little askance at the big buyer of antiques, it heeded only the surprising and unexpected confirmation of the girl who called herself Rosalie Elmere to send the impetuous Salaman Chayne and the eager Mr. Kiss as quickly as possible along the new trail.
They were sure that at last they were on the right track.
But Kotman Dass had progressed a little further—working alone.
He was already sure that Sir John Lestern was Dragour—his visit to Hammeyers that morning had been solely for the purpose of clearing up a small point necessary to complete the complex and almost uncannily obscure chain of reasoning which had led him, well ahead of his partner and Mr. Kiss, to the same conclusion concerning Lestern. And he would have announced his discovery to the two bloodhounds within a few hours.
So that the shock of witnessing Mr. Chayne.drive up to Hammeyer's, snatch Mr. Kiss away, and instantly drive off in company with a woman whom Hammeyer said flatly was the wife of Sir John Lestern was stunning.
Entirely in ignorance of the story devised by the woman, as he was, nevertheless Mr. Dass had no doubt at all that Messrs. Chayne and Kiss had been deliberately angled for by one who was probably Dragour's ablest, most cunning aid, and that they had swallowed the bait.
And the sight of both men leaving swiftly in company with this woman was quite enough to convince him, now that he knew her identity, that they were en route to what they believed was likely to be a successful attempt to capture Dragour—but which Kotman Dass knew was far more likely to end tragically for both Mr. Chayne and the detective.
"They goa to pounce upon the tiger unawares, they think—but the tiger is lying in ambush for them!" he gabbled to himself over and over again, as he was driven to the big house for the treatment of drug cases established by Lord Barford and Mr. Leahurst, the millionaire, and conducted by Doctor Babbaji Chunder Ghote.
Kotman Dass was just in time to catch Barford and Leahurst as they were leaving the house, and he poured out his story, almost incoherent with anxiety.
"Sir John Lestern!" Lord Barford was amazed. "You say he is Dragour. But I know him quite well. I have dined with him occasionally—he has visited us!"
He scowled, thinking.
"Yes, yes—it could be so! It would account for several things. I remember Sir John had rather an extravagant admiration for the Barford carved rubies—which were stolen and found in Dragour's secret flat!"
He stared with startled eyes at Kotman Dass. Leahurst, the American, broke in sharply.
"Later for that, Barford—forgive me, but we've no time to spare if Mr. Chayne and Kiss are hurrying off into this ambush."
He turned to Kotman Dass, his eyes blazing.
"Where is Lestern?"
Kotman Dass had gleaned that from a dealer the day before.
"He is at a place named Poole, by Bournemouth, either on his yacht or at sea-beach house he possesses at that place," said Kotman.
"We'd better follow at once," snapped Leahurst, and ran down the steps to the great car which stood at the curb awaiting him.
"How far to Poole, Carse? Quickly, man!"
The chauffeur, a taciturn, hard-looking man of middle age rapped out the answer instantly: "A hundred and nine miles, sir!"
Leahurst scowled.
"Too far—it will take too long to go by car. We may fail to overtake them. We must try for a plane."
He ran back into the house and spoke earnestly to Babbaji Chunder Ghote, who nodded.
"I will telephone to airdrome and arrange," said the little doctor imperturbably. "Does Kotman Dass go with you?"
"Yes, He must come—we may need him!"
The knees of the fat man sagged.
"Noa, if you please, dear mister, I am seriouslee unable on account of grave affliction of cowardice from birth—" he began, but Babbaji Chunder Ghote checked him.
"Come into office, Kotman Dass, if you please," he said.
Gratefully the mountainous one did so.
"Pull up your sleeve Kotman Dass. I shall render you temporarily courageous as elephant." His small brown hands were busy at his desk. He dabbed iodine on the fat man's forearm.
"This will not hurt—stand still, Dass!" he rasped imperatively.
A second later he had injected what he said, smiling dryly, was "courage to point of ferocity" into the arm of the shrinking Mr. Dass, dabbed the puncture again with iodine, and took from a drawer several objects like glass balls, some green, some red, speaking quickly. Then he rushed the fat man out to the car.
Lord Barford and Mr. Leahurst hustled him, trembling, dazed, and apparently bewildered, into a seat and the big machine stole forward. It stopped for a few moments at Leahurst's town house to take up several things the American needed, and then headed swiftly for the passenger airdrome.
The doctor had lost no time.
A machine was awaiting them, her engines warmed up, the pilot on board.
Leahurst glanced at Mr. Dass as the car raced up to the airplane.
"Well?" he said.
The face of Kotman Dass was set like dark iron, as the face of one of those strange and terrible carven gods or idols to be seen in certain temples of India.
"Babbaji Chunder Ghote is wizard—master of strange medicine!" said Kotman Dass deeply. "My brain is clearer than crystal and I am without one tremor of fear! This is how I have prayed ever to feel."
His great hand closed on the American's arm with such unconscious strength that Leahurst winced.
"Dragour has come almost to the end of rope! He is like dying man!"
"Dying "
Kotman Dass nodded ponderously.
"He will never be taken alive, that man. When he is at bay he will coil and strike like snake. So, like snake, we shall kill him," he said in a hard, equable voice, wholly foreign to him in normal conditions—but none the less dreadful for that.
THE fast, droning airplane launched itself southwest like a colossal dragonfly at a speed that promised to wipe out the miles long before Gregory Kiss and Salaman Chayne, by any other form of locomotion, could get halfway. But halfway themselves, a leaky gas-line joint delayed them badly, and to add to the delay the pilot eased the machine a little as she scythed swiftly over the moorlike plain off the southwestern end of the New Forest, for rolling in from the sea there was a belt of wet white fog. Within a minute he would be maneuvering for a landing, and he was anxious to make no error. Leahurst had quietly whispered of a reward in his ear at the airdrome which sounded extremely well to him.
He landed them well, in a big field some distance north of Poole, but as near as the fog allowed him to land with safety, and after more delay they were running seaward in a car hired at a ramshackle garage in the nearest village.
At the beginning of that long and narrow horn of land known as the Sandbanks, which juts out to form one of the natural protections for the harbor, and is dotted everywhere with bungalows and more pretentious holiday houses, they dismissed the motor and moved forward on foot.
The white fog muffled the sound of their footfalls like wool, and it thickened at every yard of their advance.
The driver of the hired car, well tipped and incuriously willing to help, had given them minutely exact particulars of the position of "Eyrie"—the name of Sir John Lestern's house.
"Youll have to ferry over the channel at the end of the Sandbanks—there's a motor ferryboat there—and land on the end of Studland Beach. Follow the beach right round about a quarter of a mile, and you'll come to the house. It's a lonelylike place—the only house for a mile along the sands. Sir John's yacht is lying just inside the harbor—leastways it was till this mist come in," the man had said, and they found the ferry without difficulty, chugging across a narrow channel where the tide ran in fast but silent under its cloak of fog, showing only an occasional flicker of flying white foam, like a flash of teeth.
The fog was thicker than ever on the opposite bank of the channel and it was not possible for them to distinguish each other more than a few feet away. It was Kotman Dass who turned to the ferryman as he took his money.
"There will be more passengers for you soon, feree man; yellow-bearded one with hot eyes and angree ways—and a lean man, silent and tall. Give them this note when they arrive."
He handed a scrawled warning that the woman was leading them into a trap, proffering a coin with it. The ferryman took both, chuckled and faded away into the fog on the breast of the tide—lost to sight instantly.
Elbow touched elbow as they moved slowly along the sands.
"What arms are you carrying, misters?" Kotman Dass asked softly.
"An automatic," said Lord Barford.
"A Luger pistol and a hunting knife, a thing I learned to use long ago in the West," replied Leahurst.
Kotman Dass chuckled uncannily. He was like a man who is fey—dangerously enchanted.
"Ah, that is good," he said softly.
"What about you? Are you heeled, man?" whispered the American, his voice light and taut.
"I am not expert in matter of firearms," said Mr. Dass. "Soa I carry onlee one species weapon—glass tear-shells and prussic-acid bombs. Be careful, if you please, not to crush same! It is special invention designed for me by Doctor Babbaji Chunder Ghote!"
They heard Lord Barford shiver in the clinging wet fog.
"Good God! What " he hesitated.
"Let's get on! I'm wet to the skin in this filthy fog!"
They moved on in silence.
But fifty yards on the silence was broken.
A dark shadowy form loomed on the mist before them—and checked, sniffing loudly. It was a gigantic dog, seeming well nigh as big as a pony—and savage, as the low, vibrant, ferocious growl which rolled out instantly, warned them.
They were in touch with the first of the guards of Dragour!
"Quiet! Leave him to me!" said Leahurst softly as the dog came on, and the blade of a long knife glimmered with a faint and livid sheen in his hand.
A low whistle shrilled from somewhere ahead as the dog flew at the throat of the American—and a fraction of a second before the big beast, carefully trained to blind ferocity, transfixed itself. There pierced the fog from close behind the long wild wailing cry of a woman—fog thinned, so that it seemed like the cry of a ghost-woman!
"Dragour! Dragour! Dragour!"
And instantly a man's voice harsh, fierce, imperative!
"Ah, stop that—be still—be st—"
The rest was lost in the death howl of the great dog. But Kotman Dass was glaring behind him.
The voice of the invisible man in the blank white fog banks behind had been the voice of Salaman Chayne!
The ghostly cry of the woman shrilled out again, this time with a touch of despair.
"Dragour! Dragour! Dragour!"
Then silence.
The three men stood by the writhing body of the dog, staring—listening.
But the beach was blank and blind and there was no sound now but the low beating of little waves on the flat sands.
Leahurst called deeply into the fog.
"Chayne! Kiss! This way—this way!"
Somebody muttered a few yards away and then the fog loosed upon them three more figures—those of Salaman Chayne, Kiss, and Lady Lestern, the woman decoy who, claiming to seek the aid of the two, had all but succeeded in leading them into the waiting grip of Dragour.
But on the very brink of success, as it must have seemed to her, the precautions of Kotman Dass had balked her.
Salaman Chayne and the detective had crossed the narrow channel dividing the Sandbanks from Studland Beach, still fully believing that she was Rosalie Elmere, a ladies' maid and an enemy to Sir John Lestern.
But the ferryman had not forgotten to hand to Salaman the note which Kotman Dass had left—the hasty scrawl warning Mr. Chayne that the woman they were trying to help was Lady Lestern, decoying them to Dragour. They realized instantly that they were on the edge of an ambush.
Somewhere, in the fog-draped, sandy waste ahead Dragour and his people awaited them.
They landed without giving a sign that they had discovered the treachery of the woman, then, well clear of the boat, they gripped her and almost before she realized that she was unmasked the detective had handcuffed her. It was then that she had screamed for Dragour.
But the only answer that came was the sharp death howl of the hound—and, a few seconds later, the voice of Leahurst.
So, with one prisoner, the trackers of the drugmaster joined forces.
The ferryman lurched across from his boat as they grouped.
"Hey, what you doing to that lady?" he demanded gruffly. "That's Lady Lestern and if—"
Gregory Kiss tapped him on the shoulder.
"All right, all right, my man. I am a detective and Lady Lestern is arrested."
His eyes were intent on the ferryman.
"What for? What you arresting her for? She ain't done any harm," continued the man aggressively. Probably well tipped in the past he was in the mood to champion the woman.
But Mr. Kiss turned to the others,
"We can't take this woman with us—she must go back across the water! One of us must go with her, put her in safe hands and come back and follow you up."
"Yes, yes," agreed Mr. Chayne, his eyes on his enormous partner. "You, Dass—just the man."
But Mr. Kiss had other ideas.
He drew Salaman aside, whispering his suspicion that the ferryman appeared to be so inclined, in his ignorance, to champion Lady Lestern, that he might not be quite reliable.
Salaman saw that.
"Yes, Kiss. Two of us will take this traitress across the channel—you and I—put her into safe custody at that hotel on the sand banks—and nip back here. Come on! Get back to your boat, ferryman—unless you, too, want to be arrested for obstructing a detective in the execution of his duty—or half killed for obstructing me!"
Mr. Kiss arranged with the party of Kotman Dass to follow them swiftly, and forthwith he and Mr. Chayne, together with the muttering ferryman and the resolutely silent woman, moved back to the landing stage, entered the ferryboat and instantly were lost in the fog.
"Do not forget the man who whistled for dog," muttered Mr. Dass warningly as the three retraced their steps along the beach.
"Higblee probable that he is lurking in fog close at hand listening—it is almost matter of certainty that he overheard screaming of arrested lady—or clamor of man-killing dog!"
"That's true," agreed Leahurst, low-voiced. "Keep clear of each other—walk a yard apart. No use bundling in this fog for the benefit of some hired marksman of Dra—"
Something thudded loudly behind the white bank of vapor and a bullet cracked past them, perhaps a few feet ahead, and went whining out to spend itself at sea.
Somebody was shooting—aiming at sounds.
"Highlee probable onlee one there—the man with late dog," said Kotman Dass, glaring in the direction from which the thudding sound of the pistol report had come. "If there were more they would rush upon us!"
"Well, let's draw his fire and try for him!" whispered the American. "Lie flat—watch out and listen!"
They dropped to the wet sand and Leahurst's voice rose to a shout.
"Ah! On your right, Dass. Quick—there he—"
Thud! Thud! Thud! came the dull reports of the pistol and three bullets ripped over the crouching men. Whoever it was firing from the ambush of the fog, he shot like an expert.
Leahurst gave a sharp cry, as of a man hit.
"Oh-h! I'm done! Look out—ah!" He smacked heavily with both hands on the wet sand, and two more bullets flicked overhead.
"Six shots gone. Now run for him—quick!" breathed Leahurst.
They were up, racing into the fog. Lord Barford almost tripped over the lurking marksman. He was lying flat on the sands fumbling furiously to reload his pistol. Without hesitation Barford dropped on him. They rolled over struggling.
The would-be assassin must have been immensely strong and agile, for in an instant he was uppermost, gripping Barford's throat murderously.
Kotman Dass swung his huge fist against the side of the man's head in a queer, ponderous blow that knocked him senseless onto his side.
Leahurst let out a curt yelp of harsh mirth.
"A bear could have hit him no harder, Dass! That must almost have broken his neck."
"I am veree strong man—onlee unpracticed at art of blows," muttered Mr. Dass.
"Nothing wrong with that one, anyway," said Leahurst with a hard chuckle.
They corded the wrists and ankles of the senseless marksman, drew him under the low sand bank which rose steeply just above high-water mark, and pushed quietly on along the beach.
"A good start," said Leahurst, "but if I know anything about Dragour we're still a long way from the finish!"
He was right.
"IT'S a big white house well back from the beach—and halfway to Studland! The only house—you can't miss it if the fog thins!" was what the motor driver had said, and added after a pause, "Friends of their'n, gents?"
"Noa—calling on business only!" Kotman Dass had replied, swiftly,
"Oh, business. Well, they're a queerish lot living there. You want to mind your step!"
And now they were minding it. A little way on Kotman Dass stopped them.
"If you please, pay heed, dear misters!" he said in a low, level voice. "This is my hour! For little while onward, if you please, obey all that I say. I am fey! That is to say, I am inspired—charmed—I can do no wrong for short space of time. Believe that. There is not time for full explanation. It is gift of gods to me—commonly pusillanimous comic fat bloke—but now fey! It has been permitted that great illumination flares inside skull—my mind is lit up. There is terror prowling, like restless tiger, in the fogs ahead; and death lurking. Dragour is awaiting—and he is anxious. He is in grip of fear—and fear is father and mother of inexorable cruelty and deadlee cunning. Be careful if you please instantlee to obey. Question nothing that I do—I shall not make mistake for I am—possessed. Do not forget, Mister Leahurst—Lord Barford. The fog is like white darkness—and full of traps and perils. Dragour is at bay—to fight for millions and his life—against us who fight for sake of justice. Listen!"
They stood, straining their sense of hearing-. But all they heard was the snap of their huge comrade's teeth.
"The ferryman and Lady Lestern have contrived precipitation of Mister and Gregory Kiss into channel!" he said.
"Overboard, d'ye mean, man? I heard nothing!" rapped Leahurst.
"Nor I!" said Barford.
"Nor I," added Kotman Dass. "Nevertheless they are swimming in icy water. Presently you shall seel! I know. For little space of time I am veree invincible!"
He chuckled cavernously in the sound-muffling fog.
"That is Law of Compensations, misters. Even meanest slug leaves silver trace, as the poet Hodgson has written!"
He broke off, facing along the beach. Leahurst, near to him and watching him closely, saw that for a moment both his eyes were tightly closed.
"There is old-seeming, pallid graybeard approaching. I will deal with this man. Do not move, if you please, dear misters!"
Uneasily, Leahurst and Barford waited—staring at each other and at Kotman Dass. There was that about the huge partner of Salaman Chayne which was uncanny.
A minute later the fog gave up a slender, creeping ghostly form—which, limping painfully, drew close to them, halted with a start three feet away, and began to cough.
They peered dose.
The newcomer was an old gray-bearded man, coughing in the wet fog.
"Gentlemen, for the love of God, tell me where I am," he begged, in a cultured voice. "I have been seeking the ferry back to the hotel at the sand banks for the past hour in this fog. I fear I have lost my way."
"Oah, yess!" said Kotman Dass and swung a crashing, dreadful blow to the side of the graybeard's head. He dropped, flaccid and senseless.
"But—man! Why hit this poor old creature?" revolted Barford, stooping.
Kotman Dass chuckled and drew them closer to the still, crumpled-up form on the sands.
He lifted the deep wings of the dark Inverness overcoat which the man was wearing, and gripping each of the arms at the elbow raised them so that the flaccid, gloveless hands were lifted for the inspection of Leahurst and Barford.
"Look well!" said Kotman Dass. "This is veree devilish device that once was used by assassins and liers-in-wait in India!"
They peered at the hands and saw that each was fitted with a horrible steel arrangement of four long, needle-pointed, curving talons—so designed that the fingers passed through rings that slid down to the knuckles enabling the four fingers to curve naturally over the steel claws fitting in grooves on the convex side of the claws. With one of these fearful weapons fitted to each hand a man was transformed into a human tiger, lacking only the full strength of the tiger.
"I have seen things similar to this in museums," muttered Leahurst, reaching out to slide off one set of the talons.
Kotman Dass knocked his hand away.
"Oah, be careful if you please, mister!" he said. "These claws are as much fangs of cobra as talons of tiger. Oah, yes. They are poisoned!"
With the nicest care he slid the things off—and pointed out the rubber sac with which each was fitted at the base.
"Full of poison which passes through channel along center of claw to tiny hole at tip! When villain wearing these strikes, the force of blow and action of closing hands squeezes poison jet from sac into deep wounds. Veree abominable device—one little scratch to each of us and there would be three dead men on the sands instantlee!"
With the minutest care he pierced with a penknife the rubber sacs, allowing a trickle of yellowish, oily-looking stuff to drain into the salt-water-soaked sands.
The claws he wrapped in one of his brilliant, bandanna handkerchiefs, and dragging the senseless man to the sand bank above high-water mark, buried the handkerchief, save for one corner, close by.
"Tie his hands with cord, if you please—tightlee, tightlee, behind back, also ankles."
He chuckled.
"You think this is old man, veree aged, because of beard. But he has muscular forearms of man in prime of life, yes, indeed!"
Cording the wrists, they saw that it was indeed so.
"Dragour is striking for life, veree desperatlee, you see, misters. Thoase killers with whom we have soa abruptly dealt were lying in wait for Misters Chayne and Gregory Kiss, to whom decoy woman was leading them. We have saved lives of gentlemen referred—veree much alreadee! But we must trust nothing, nobodee—neither old men—nor women—nor even little child—who seem to stand between Dragour and us three men!" explained Mr. Dass as they moved on.
"But how did you know this beast was armed—how could you tell? You couldn't see him—even if you could your eyes were closed when you said he was approaching!" said Barford softly.
"I am—possessed—for short space of time," said Kotman Dass gravely. "And it has been granted to me that I should possess curious, inexplicable power to see clearlee sometimes. More clearlee than most men—to be able to see or to sense what other men see not and do not suspect. Perhaps it is matter of intellect—or of knowledge, for I am man of great knowledge—working in subconscious fashion. Perhaps it is peculiar faculty of my brains, my mind, to tune itself unconsciouslee correct for reception of thought waves from minds of those upon whom my brains are concentrated. I do not know. It is whollee conjecture. Sometimes I have thought perhaps it is special gift of God to compensate for the terrible affliction of shameful cowardice that haunts me all my days!"
They had nothing to say to that.
A little way on Kotman Dass halted again, fronting the fog with closed eyes.
"There is no fresh danger lurking between house of Dragour and this place," he announced presently. "Let us make haste."
SO they went on steadily, guided through the fog by the glassy tinkle of little waves breaking on the wet sand away to their left.
Ten minutes' walking brought them to a place where the fog seemed thinner and, on their right hand, was faintly tinged with gold.
Kotman Dass stopped them.
"Here is house of Dragour. The radiance of fog is due to illumination from windows. Now we must go veree carefully, if you please."
He took from his pocket two of the glass balls which he had called bombs—one green, one red.
Their pistols gripped ready for instant use, the others followed the fat man toward the yellow glow that lightened the thinning fog.
"It is impossible to wait long or to maneuver slowlee—for the woman with fereeman will telephone from hotel other side of channel to warn Dragour," murmured Mr. Dass, peering anxiously through the swirling scarves of thinning fog.
On their cheeks now was the chilly impact of a little breeze blowing in from the sea, freshening at every moment.
They felt the yielding sand underfoot give place to short, springy turf.
Once the thorns of a tall rosebush caught at and detained Leahurst for a startled moment. They were passing across the garden before Dragour's house.
Guided with uncanny precision by the fat man they reached a flight of low, broad, graystone steps, went softly up these, and found themselves at the front entrance to the house—a long, low stone-built place facing the quiet sea.
As they paused something came padding clumsily but swiftly round the corner of the house, and, swinging through the mist, resolved itself into another of the monstrous dogs, which, without a sound, leaped blood-thirstily for the throat of Kotman Dass.
Two shots shattered the silence as Leahurst and Lord Barford fired almost simultaneously and the big beast dropped, rolling over at their feet.
For a second the trio stood listening in the golden haze. Then the door immediately before them was thrown open and a man peered out.
"Who's there?" he cried sharply, in a voice that was shrill with suspicion.
Mr. Dass slipped his prussic-acid and tear-gas bombs back into their padded cases in his bulging pockets, moving with surprising speed, and shot out a great hand, gripping the man by the throat.
"Be still," said Kotman Dass and dragging him out, beat him heavily with a clenched fist between the eyes and threw him back to the others, limp and unconscious.
Barford took him, running his hands swiftly over the man's pockets for weapons. Leahurst, with Mr. Dass, stepped into the house.
At the end of a big electric-lighted lounge hall, wonderfully, amazingly furnished with antique things so rare, so costly, that they would more fittingly have been in a museum, a man, dressed in a yachting suit, was standing by a table. He was in the act of hanging up a telephone receiver, as Messrs. Dass and Leahurst entered.
He turned to them quickly—to find himself facing the black muzzle of Leahurst's pistol.
Yet it was not at the automatic that he stared. His slightly oblique eyes, dark and glowing, set in a lean, gloomy, wrinkle-engraved face, under a big, bulging unnaturally wide forehead—the brow of a madman or a genius—were fixed on the glass bomb in Kotman Dass' raised hand.
Dragour!
They recognized him instantly from the description which Salaman Chayne had often given them—and a second later Lord Barford, staring past them, corroborated the recognition.
"That is Sir John Lestern!" he said, and swung up his pistol, his genial eyes suddenly hard and ruthless.
Slower witted, less accustomed to handle men of all kinds, and less quick to make decisions than the swift-witted American, yet he was of that slow, stubborn nature which once roused goes coldly, inexorably berserk. He meant to press his trigger immediately he was fully satisfied that his bullet would kill the man at whom it was aimed. That nightmare journey through the fog had set his temper into the cold, iron-hard and utterly complete disregard of everything but his purpose which is characteristic of his race.
But Leahurst and Kotman Dass were thinking a step further than Barford. Though they were as competent as Barford to kill Dragour instantly they desired, if it were possible, to take him alive. There were many victims of his deadly drug to be considered—many of the drugmaster's private records to be secured—if possible the whole history of his crimes against humanity to be learned.
They wanted him alive—for a little while—if they could get him.
And it seemed that they would achieve this. For, even as Lord Barford's automatic swung up, Dragour stepped forward to within a few feet of them, and stopped, facing them with a pallid smile, his arms thrust out before him.
"I had hoped to see my people announcing the death of all you meddlers!" he said, in a flat, metallic voice of resignation. "But it seems that the men I paid to guard me have failed. You need not shoot—or be melodramatic. I surrender!" He laughed sourly. "Are you equipped with handcuffs?"
He shook his outstretched, dangling hands a little, sneering.
Leahurst sprang toward him.
"Noa!" screamed Kotman Dass wildly and snatched at the American even as he seemed to launch himself bodily into a black pit which yawned suddenly at his feet.
A big square of the marble floor had shot silently open, probably impelled by powerful springs, released invisibly by a trigger catch.
But Dragour had acted just a fraction of a second too soon. If he had waited an almost infinitesimal space of time longer he would have had certainly Lord Barford and Leahurst—and, probably, Kotman Dass, snatching to save the others, would have been dragged down by them.
As it was, only a violent effort, impossible to a weaker or smaller man, saved Leahurst. For a ghastly second he leaned over the black gulf, held up only by the grip of Kotman Dass on his left arm. Then, as the fat man clenched his huge fingers tighter, and, leaning back, put forth his whole strength, slowly Leahurst pivoted on his heels and was drawn back to safety.
Twice Barford's pistol roared deafeningly close by them, the bullets spattering against a marble faun at the end of the hall, and they heard him swear softly as all three stepped back from the jaws of the trap.
They hung for a second, in angry hesitation, staring at the pit in the floor.
It was deep, like a well; the dank, salt smell of sea water came up from its depths; and they could hear, far down, the surge and suck and hollow regurgitation of moving waters—as it were some chained, uneasy beast, growling cavernously at its disappointment.
Kotman Dass shut his eyes.
"There is no end to evil devices of Dragour!" he said.
A haggard man, in the prim clothes of a valet came softly from behind a wonderfully embroidered portière curtain, smiling that odd, contented, dreamy smile which characterized the more advanced victims of Dragour's drug. But at sight of Lord Barford, his eyes widened.
"Everitt!"
It was the man who had once been valet to Lord Barford—and whose name and plight had been used by Lady Lestern to ensnare the sympathy of Salaman Chayne.
"Everitt!" said Barford. "Where has that man gone? Quick!"
Everitt smiled slowly, seeming to recognize through his dreadful dreamy indifference, his old employer.
"Sir John has gone to the yacht," he said carelessly.
"Where's the yacht?"
"Lying in the harbor across the sands at the back of the house," said the valet. He yawned, smiled again, and lounged away—Wholly lost in his drug dreams, completely without interest in anything or anybody but himself.
"We must follow him veree quicklee at once," said Kotman Dass, a queer note in his voice. He moved forward round the edge of the pit, the others at his side.
THEY passed out of the house by a side door left open.
"It is veree good for us all that Dragour expected to-day only two men coming blindly into jaws of trap—instead of three men forewarned and forearmed, as proverb says," panted Mr. Dass as he hurried forward. "If he had suspected trick of Lady Lestern to be discovered he would have prepared differently for us—nothing could have saved us, in the fog. We should have been veree dead men."
There was a note of anxiety in his voice, and a shrill uneasiness. He was moving through the wisps of fading fog very quickly—lumbering at his full speed.
"Oah, misters, hurree if you please," he exhorted them. "For if we do not pull down this man-eater soon then I shall be useless—the power of drug given by Chunder Ghote is waning low in my veins, my heart, and ray undeniable hitherto courage flickers like fading candle flame."
It was almost a wail.
Stumbling over the low sand hills, one on each side of him, Leahurst and Barford, both men of that grim stark courage which only sets more stubbornly at every check or reverse, endeavored to cheer him.
"Forget that, Dass—you've been a brave man to-day—nothing can change that. Keep your teeth in it for a few minutes more and we win!" shouted Leahurst. "We're all in it together—three of us—and we shall get this devil yet!"
"Stick it, Dass, man—you're doing fine, man, fine! Stick it!"
A dim memory flickered into Leahurst's brain as he ran—something Salaman Chayne had once mentioned.
"You've played a sahib's part to-day, Dass—a pukka sahib's part! Don't lay down on it now!" he cried.
Strange, how that spurred the failing spirit of the fat man.
"A sahib's part! Oah, yes! Hurree, then—hurree!"
Somebody was shouting out of the mists ahead—and there was a splashing of oars.
Then the pursuers of the drugmaster came out on the edge of the gray waters of the wide harbor.
They pushed out one of several light boats which lay on the sands and rowed fiercely after that sound of splashing oars, peering over their shoulders. They seemed to tear the light boat through the water and almost instantly they caught sight of Dragour alone in a smaller boat pulling fiercely for the long, low bulk of a white-painted steam yacht not far ahead, and momentarily looming larger through the dissolving fog.
From the raked smokestack of the shapely yacht poured a column of thick black smoke. She was lying with steam up, ready to dart for the open sea at an instant's notice.
Leahurst threw away his oars and poured a magazine full of bullets into the boat of Dragour.
But he was too late.
The drugmaster's boat shot alongside a lowered stage and he gripped the rope rail, swinging himself out of the boat onto the step, while the boat of the pursuers was still twenty yards away.
Dragour paused for an instant to make the phantom of a derisive gesture at them, then turned to run up the steps.
But he never moved—for even at that instant there came swaying to the head of that path to safety a bloodstained, yellow-bearded, spectral figure in soaked clothing that clung to its lean frame—a figure that thrust before it two rigid arms, each with a pistol at the end of it.
"Stand! Stand, Dragour! Damn you, you're done at last!"
It was the voice of Mr. Salaman Chayne, edged with triumph, bitter with rage.
But the drugmaster was quick.
Deliberately he let the muscles of his legs relax and went crumpling backward into the sea.
"Watch your side!" shouted Mr. Chayne, recognizing the occupants of the boat that jarred bows on to the yacht a second later, and ran across the deck to shoot should Dragour appear on the other side.
But it was many seconds before the drug-master appeared again on the surface—quite close to the boat.
He did not resist the fierce hands that drew him to the side—for he was quite dead, though he was not drowned. He had taken some strange sharp poison under water—probably he had been holding it ready from the moment he knew his boat to be pursued.
But this they learned afterward.
Even as they stared at the white face, cruel and evil even in death, the voice of Mr. Chayne, jarred, fiercely triumphant, down to them.
"Stand by! I'm coming down to identify that scoundrel!"
"He—he is dead!" wailed Kotman Dass most tremulously, for the virtue of the stimulating drug was gone out of him. He was himself again—and a terribly frightened man.
"I am glad to hear it!" said Mr. Chayne, with acrid composure, and came down to satisfy himself that it was really so.
For a few moments he surveyed the lax body of the drugmaster in thoughtful silence.
"This will mean the saving of many lives," he said, and turned to the others. "Kiss and I had a narrow escape though," he volunteered with a hard grin. "That ferryman must have been in Dragour's pay. Halfway across the channel he managed to knock me overboard from behind. Kiss guessed that I was unconscious and followed in after me. He got me ashore on the other side, but the woman and the ferryman had got there first. Kiss followed up and got them. He winged the ferryman and caught the woman at the hotel telephone—with the handcuffs still on her! They're both locked up in a room at the hotel awaiting the police. Kiss telephoned to Poole for them."
"But how did you get to the yacht?" asked Leahurst.
Salaman grinned.
"Kiss overheard the woman tell somebody to make for the yacht at once. He guessed she was ringing Dragour—and he picked me up on the beach, just getting my senses back. We took, a boat lying there and rowed straight for the yacht. Some of the hands put up a fight—brisk enough to make it enjoyable—but we calmed 'em down. Kiss is no novice with his hands and feet or his firearms either. And I—Well, we calmed 'em down! They're steady enough now they've realized that they were risking their liberty for a criminal. Dragour, instead of the decent employer which they thought Sir John Lestern was! That's all! I think we can do worse than nip back to the house and see what is to be seen while we've got the chance. The police will be all over the place before long!"
And that is what they did.
The fiery Salaman, his fighting hunger for once temporarily assuaged, was in a cheery mood.
He slapped his mountainous partner on the back as the boat headed back to the beach.
"And how about you, Little One—I'm glad to see you in the thick of it for once!"
"Oah, yes," stammered Mr. Dass. "But I shall be veree grateful, veree happee man to enter fast train leading to home! I have had veree disconcerting afternoon to-day, dear mister."
"Yes, that's so," interrupted Leahurst dryly. "I am ashamed to say how many times he has saved our lives in the last hour or so! But nothing is more certain than the fact that we should have been dead men—and probably buried—long ago but for Mr. Kotman Dass!"
And Lord Barford corroborated that.
"Nevertheless, misters, I am veree uncomfortable now and wishing veree much to goa home to quiet life with birds at Green Square. At hour of lunch time I was extremelee brave—but now I am shocking coward once more—veree sorree and ashamed for that, but totallee unable to continue bravery, if you please!"
"That's all right, Kotman—I'll take care of you, old man," said Salaman, wholly genial, even slipping a friendly arm round the fat man's shoulders. "I guess you're all right. I—we all think a whole lot more of you than we tell you—in spite of your—um—affliction!"
"Thank you veree much," said Kotman humbly. Salaman turned to the others.
"So you had a rough journey along the beach, too, hey?"
They described it briefly, Salaman listening in silence. At the end he nodded, visibly impressed.
"Yes," he said quietly, even a little subdued. "You are lucky to be alive. Why, Kiss and I had a joy ride in comparison!"
He sprang out on to the sands.
"But all's well that ends well! Still, I should like to see those poisoned claws! What an appalling weapon! What an escape!"
They headed for the house.
Except for a few servants—all of whom showed signs of being slaves of the drug—nobody was there. Evidently Dragour had expected that his assassins would easily dispose of Messrs. Chayne and Kiss.
Salaman found a change of clothing which he used, and some wonderful champagne, which he promptly commandeered, and conveyed to the big luxurious library where Kotman Dass was nervously watching the others going through the drugmaster's papers.
"Well, Dass, we've got the mainspring of the gang, The rest is nothing—just ordinary police work, rounding them up. Let the police do that, hey?"
The face of the fat man lighted up with relief and happiness.
"Oah, yes, highlee commendable suggestion!"
"As soon as the police arrive we'll hand over to them and—get back to the quiet life in Green Square," promised Mr. Chayne. "Meantime, have a drink. Dragour knew good champagne. It will cheer you up—though there's nothing to be afraid of now."
Kotman Dass obeyed with a marked air of relief.
The wine strung his relaxed nerves. As he replaced his second glass on the table, empty, he was able to muster up a quiet chuckle.
"What's the joke, man?" snapped Salaman.
"Onlee curious reflection occurred, dear mister. Veree funnee thought," said Kotman, laughing outright as the humor of his thought appeared to expand.
"Well, get on—what's the idea?" commanded Mr. Chayne.
"Oah, small matter onlee—it occurred to mind how excessivelee comical that I, Kotman Dass, of all men on earth, should have led soa efficientlee the little expedition of trio along fog-blinded beach of assassins to successful finish!"
His laugh deepened, then broke off abruptly, as another thought struck him.
A look of extraordinary wistfulness came into his dark mild eyes.
"It was veree high, veree wonderful and glorious feeling—not to be afraid of any peril—to invite danger gaylee, to defeat dangerous enemies in spirited fashion. Courage! It is most glorious of all thee gifts of gods!" he said hungrily.
"Yes, maybe—and another glorious gift is brains and the art of using 'em, Dass. You've got that! And I admit that I haven't!"
The hot-eyed, yellow-bearded little man sighed deeply,
"But you have the courage of lion!" Kotman Dass reminded him. "Whereas I am onlee just cowardly fat man—no good!"
He sighed not less deeply than his partner.
Silently they refilled and emptied their glasses.
"Soon the police will be here and we shall be free to return home to Green Square—and the books," said Mr. Dass more cheerfully.
"And the birds!" added Salaman Chayne.
They nodded solemnly to each other, good friends in spite of their failings, comrades in spite of their differences—and above all, a combination which to their enemies must ever be crushingly formidable, but which to their friends could never fail to be a tower of strength.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.